


Discipline

by edibleflowers



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Episode: s02e02 Sleeper, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows when you need to stop thinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discipline

**Author's Note:**

> Set during S2, directly after "Sleeper". It's pretty much shameless porn. I started this probably sometime in early 2010; finished on April 21, 2011. Originally posted on April 24, 2011, on my Livejournal.

Shooting Beth is a mercy. You tell yourself that even as the four of you open fire. She wasn't in full sleeper-agent mode; she wouldn't have killed Gwen, but you couldn't take the chance. None of you would have risked it. After, though, as Gwen cradles Beth's body and cries, you look down at the woman who made the only choice she thought she could and wonder if you could have done the same.

There's cleanup to do after, like there always is. You're still a little sore from the chest wound that bled you to death earlier, but you help Owen take the body down to the autopsy lab so that he can go over it and make sure there's nothing left in her that might still lie sleeping. Tosh is already searching the archives for a better scanner that will help her analyse the electronics embedded at cellular levels in Beth's body. Gwen sits at Owen's desk and shakes for a little while, so you squeeze her shoulders and tell her to go help Tosh; it'll give her something to focus on.

You're not surprised, when you go into your office, to find Ianto there. He's standing quietly where you like to place yourself, positioned to look out over your domain, this cavern of stone and steel and shabby brick. It's not the first time he's helped kill, and it won't be the last. You're not too worried about him, though you let your hand drop to his hip to squeeze just for a moment as you pass by him. He makes a soft sound and turns to you, but you've already moved to the cabinet behind your desk where you keep the alcohol.

Now that you're no longer waiting for the Doctor, you indulge in drink more frequently than you used to; not so often while still on duty, though. When you pour a finger of whiskey into a tumbler, Ianto turns to look at you. His eyes are dark and inscrutable, and you gulp down a mouthful of whiskey without taking your eyes off his face. The potent liquor burns a trail down and you swallow hard. So does Ianto.

He comes around the desk, takes the glass from your hand and finishes the remaining swallow, then pushes in close, his hand on your hip, licking the taste of it from your lips. Everything's going straight to your head, the alcohol fumes and Ianto's heated scent. He's still annoyed about the CB antenna jury-rigged with duct tape to the SUV's mirror and you welcome his searching kiss, feeling a surge of heat leap through you when he pushes you hard against the desk and grinds his hips roughly into yours. Ianto's always gorgeous, but you ache for the moments when he takes control: it sharpens his mouth, darkens his eyes, files his tongue into a weapon.

"Please," you hear yourself gasp. Right now you don't want to have to think. You don't care that the others are still there, that there's more work to be done: you want to be made to forget about all of it, from the sleeper agent's awakening to your most recent death. But Ianto doesn't give in to your demands. He steps back and tugs down on his jacket to straighten it.

"Later," he says, and takes the empty glass on his way out. You're still gasping and leaning against the edge of your desk, wondering what the hell just happened, when Owen shouts up from the autopsy bay that he needs a hand. You inhale and take a moment to adjust yourself before heading down to assist him.

* * *

Thankfully, you don't have to wait too much longer. The scans on Beth's body come up quickly and Toshiko, looking over them, nods in satisfaction; the original EMP destroyed all connection to the rest of the cell (all of whom are now dead anyway) and she's got the cryogenics system set up to bypass any attempts to deceive the instrumentation. The corpse is settled in a cryo chamber and sent down to the morgue, and you tell everyone to get themselves home. It's going on nine in the evening now; none of you have had much rest since the first police reports of the break-in last night. Gwen stops in while you're looking over the blade Owen removed from the body. It's reassuring to hear her restored to fighting form; you can even tease her about the wedding without too much of a pang of opportunities missed, and you smile affectionately after her as she heads out.

Normally you'd tell Ianto to go get some rest, too, but even if you knew where he was, you're looking forward to that "later" far too much. The first part of that mystery, at least, is solved when you emerge from your office to see Ianto standing at the computer in his station, the area he's put together by the stairs with the coffee machine and storage for all the accompanying necessities.

Just as you open your mouth to greet him, he glances back at you. His eyes are still dark; your mouth snaps shut.

"Downstairs," he says. You blink at him; that could mean any of a dozen things, and that's just off the top of your head. "In your room," he clarifies, and raises an eyebrow when you don't immediately start moving. Swallowing, you turn on your heel and make for your office, dropping down the ladder in a rush.

The few minutes that you spend waiting for Ianto seem to expand to the space of years, a lifetime, before the light streaming in from above is finally blocked out by his body. You move aside so he'll have room; he's still fully dressed and as he sets feet on the floor, he shakes his head, looking at you with something resembling vague disapproval. "Too many clothes," he says.

You nearly trip over your feet in your haste to undress, dropping shirt and trousers and undershirt to the floor in a heap over your boots. Ianto's more leisurely: he gracefully shrugs out of his suit coat and folds it over a rung, undoes his tie but leaves it looped around his neck, unbuttons his shirt. When you're naked before him, he nods approvingly and leans back on the ladder. "Knees," he says with a simple nod, and your knees hit the floor, barely cushioned by your discarded clothing; the cold smack reverberates up through your bones.

He sinks a rough hand into your hair, twines his fingers in it. "Suck me off, Jack," he says. "Do me right." Your fingers shake as you tug his belt open, then his trousers. They drop easily and you draw in a breath, your mouth inches from the prominent bulge of his hard cock in his pants. You can't resist; you lean in and mouth him through the thin cotton, damping the fabric with your needy breath. His fingers twist, jerking your head back, and a thrill of pain races through you.

"I _said_ ," he repeats, growling, "suck me." Swallowing, you skin the briefs off him.

Even if he wasn't pushing you (pretty willingly) to your knees to do this, you'd do it anyway; you love sucking cock, and Ianto's in particular. He's so responsive, so open: gasping, rocking hips to push himself deeper into your mouth -- something you encourage by sucking hard on him to pull him into your throat -- and when your nose is buried in the skin and wiry hair of his belly, he makes the rawest sound you've ever heard out of a human voice. You're literally gagging for it. He's letting you set the pace, at least, now that you've proven your willingness, and you draw back to suck in precious air, then let his cock fill your throat again, again, until the two of you are moving together -- his hips swaying forward and your mouth pushing in to meet his thrusts -- he's fucking your mouth and you love it, you want to be filled up with his cock forever.

He drags back before the looming orgasm, though, yanking on your hair to pull you away, making you stop. You look up at him even as you're wiping away the string of spit suspended between your lips and the head of his dick. His eyes have gone black, the bright hues of arousal staining his cheeks and neck. "I want to come inside you," he says, and his voice is hoarse, thick. You nod, and he lets you up so that you can scramble to the bed.

You don't even think about it; you just sprawl on your stomach, spreading your legs wantonly. Hearing the slide of fabric behind you, you close your eyes and wait, trembling, for Ianto to finish undressing. You need this so much right now, to surrender to him; to let him take you and do what he will with you. To be possessed by him in every sense of the word.

It's probably only a moment later, though it feels like an eternity has gone by, when the bed shifts under you with the weight of Ianto's body. His hands brush your shoulders, tracing the shapes of shoulderblades, tickling down your spine, circling your ribs. He's kneeling between your spread legs; you can feel the heat of him, but he's not touching you anywhere other than where his hands glide over your skin. It's maddening. You feel like you've been hard as rock for hours now, and it's all you can do to keep yourself from grinding your insistent erection into the bed below you. Ianto's expert at tormenting you, teasing you to the point of no return, but his skills have only improved since you came back to Torchwood. Shaking, you breathe a silent prayer that he won't hold back.

The sliding hands disappear from your skin, and you have time to whimper at the loss before they return: one caressing a buttock, the other sliding along wetly to draw circles there, between your cheeks, where it's so, so good. Penetration comes without a warning, the sudden fullness striking a moan from you: two of Ianto's fingers in you at once, pushing deep, working in like he's already fucking you. You arch back and up almost involuntarily. A moment later, your arsecheek stings where he's slapped you, and the moan that rips out of you echoes in the small bedchamber.

"Stop it," he orders you, his own voice shaking. "Stop or I will."

Faced with that ultimatum, you have no choice but to hold as still as you possibly can. It's hell, it's torture, to feel the cool slide of the sheet under you, your cock so hard you think you can count every thread of the linens. But you manage it, and at last Ianto resumes his efforts.

Sometimes you want him to take his time, to go slow. (Not that you usually ever manage it, but it's a goal, at least.) This isn't one of those times. Need races through you, bouncing like a pinball in your brain, and the only thing that keeps you from pushing back and demanding is the knowledge that Ianto really will stop altogether if you do. "Bastard," you grit out, and you're rewarded by his laugh and the slick slide of his fingers as they pull back and pop out of you.

Emptiness now, but it only lasts a moment before those knowing fingers are replaced with the heat of that cock, sleek and blunt and ahhfuckyesYES taking you, finally, finally filling you up. He isn't shy about it, not anymore; his hands grip the sheet on either side of your ribs and he just pushes, one sudden thrust filling you utterly. Your moan is incoherent, and a part of you notes wryly that his is, too. Good.

That's one of the things you love about Ianto: he can take control and he can give it up, too. When you need him to be in charge, he is -- instinctively, it seems, finding those moments without you having to ask. But he doesn't pretend with you, either; he doesn't act as if he doesn't enjoy it, because he knows how much you enjoy that you turn him on. That you get him off. There aren't games with Ianto. Teasing and play, quiet confessions, but no games. It's a relief.

This is, too: his hand snaking around to press flat on your belly, feeling your skin fluttering under his palm before sliding lower to cover your cock. His grip is sweet heat, a practised slide. You feel as if you've been hard for years now, for centuries; he's all over you now, blanketing your back, his cock driving into you again and again in steady hard thrusts, his hand finding a rhythm of its own. When his head turns and you feel him mouthing your shoulder, then the sharp sudden shock of teeth in your skin, it's just too much. Sensation takes you and you feel like the top of your head is coming off.

His moan is distant over the blood rush in your ears, but you feel his orgasm right on the heels of yours, feel him shuddering and pressing hard in you, and then he collapses on you. It's a weight you welcome every time, even though he asks -- as he always does -- "Not too heavy, am I?"

"No," you whisper, and reach for his hand to bring it up to your lips. He makes a quiet sound.

"Needed that," he murmurs.

You can't help but smile. "We both did."

There's not much room on the little bed, but you make do. You always do, for him.


End file.
